


she sits comfortably in her beauty’s summit in the garden

by wrennette



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Background arranged unrequited anidala, Eloping, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 20:20:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennette/pseuds/wrennette
Summary: When she comes to court to marry Prince Anakin, Padmé is at first certain that the King’s Sword does not like her. Ser Kenobi is cool and aloof from the start, his pale eyes flat as he looks her over. She is surprisingly stung by his lack of reaction. While she has long been lauded as a beauty, she had not thought herself vain.
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 20
Kudos: 211





	she sits comfortably in her beauty’s summit in the garden

**Author's Note:**

> Title from A Lesson from Kama Sutra, by Mahmoud Darwish, trans. Fady Joudah
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing in a pseudo-medieval setting for [like the melody that’s sweetly played in tune](%E2%80%9C) so when I had the bright idea to write obidala very loosely paralleling Lancelot and Guinevere I decided to roll with it. Featuring a large amount of poetry.

When she comes to court to marry Prince Anakin, Padmé is at first certain that the King’s Sword does not like her. Ser Kenobi is cool and aloof from the start, his pale eyes flat as he looks her over. She is surprisingly stung by his lack of reaction. While she has long been lauded as a beauty, she had not thought herself vain. 

“Princess Amidala,” she is greeted, and Padmé dips her head to the King. He is a tall, proud man, with many years yet before him. He will be King still, Padmé estimates, when she has given him grandchildren. She steals a look at the Prince, a few years her junior and seeming still very much a boy. 

“My King,” Padmé says with appropriate respect, for the matter of her being introduced to the court is of primary importance, not the impertinence of the King’s Sword. “May I introduce my ladies in waiting, Sabé, Cordé, and Moteé?” They dip into deep curtsies, dark heads bowed. They are her cousins of varying degree, all younger daughters who might not have been able to come to court without her patronage. For the privilege of forming her retinue, they will guard her with their lives.

“Ladies, be welcome here,” King Qui-Gon says. “The summer palace at Varykino has been set aside for your use, as well as rooms here.”

“My liege is most generous,” Padmé acknowledges, and they go through the rest of the courtly rigamarole before she is able to settle back among the female courtiers. Already they begin vying for position - the King’s court is already settled, but the Prince’s court has likely been controlled by his lady mother until now. She is one of the King’s lesser wives, Padmé knows, a former bed slave called Shmi, who has done what Queen Tahl could not, and borne a healthy heir to the throne. 

Padmé finds herself wondering if Prince Anakin, too, will take many wives, or if his early life in the harem will encourage him to do away with the archaic practice. Already the King has abolished slavery and indenture throughout the kingdom in his son’s name, the edict taking effect on the day the Prince was born. After all, under the old laws, a child born to an enslaved mother was likewise enslaved. There had been some unrest, Padmé knew, although she had been insulated against the worst of it. 

Over the next few days, Padmé begins feeling out the court for potential allies. Her handmaidens help, as they are able to pass through crowds with far less notice than Padmé herself. They speak of Lady Riyo, who is kind to both Lady Shmi and Prince Anakin, and who gives food from her own kitchens to the poor each evening. They speak of elegant Lady Satine, who has taken as ward her wayward sister’s son, and named the boy her own heir. Pious Lady Depa is also mentioned, for her father Lord Mace sits on the King’s Council. It is said she will follow Lady Satine’s example, for her sister has left the city, but there is a boy named Caleb who trails in Lady Depa’s skirts, and has some of her look about his nose and chin.

It is a month before Padmé has cause to notice Ser Kenobi again. In that time, she has assembled much of her court. Depa is as pious as rumour promised, but her devotion hides a streak of biting humour. With her she often brings Lady Adi; Padmé has begun to suspect they are lovers. Lady Riyo has joined her court as well, along with Lady Mon, who is young and quiet and sharp as a dagger in the dark. Lady Satine has returned to the countryside - there is talk of unrest there, and some say that her sister has returned with an unsuitable husband, looking to take control of their Duchy. Padmé is, perhaps selfishly, a little grateful to have not made the connection. She wants her court to be calm and serene, unriddled by scandal. 

When Ser Kenobi is foisted upon them, it is at the insistence of the Prince. He would have his beloved betrothed protected by the finest Knight in the kingdom. Padmé thanks him politely, allowing him to press a slightly too-wet kiss to her fingers. She cannot refuse Kenobi’s presence, and so she ignores it the best she can, even as the others sneak glances at him. 

He is not unattractive, Padmé has the eyes to see that. His hair falls red-gold around a handsome face, clubbed neatly at the back of his neck. He wears the royal family’s colours, but the crimson and cream looks good on him, and his shoulders are broad beneath his tabards and mail. 

There is no real purpose to Kenobi’s presence, beyond the Prince’s insistence. Padme thinks Kenobi must chafe with boredom, to be subjected to watching over the Princess’ court as they do needlework and write letters and discuss religious texts. They walk in the gardens to admire the flowers, and Ser Kenobi follows them like a shadow. They relax on a pleasure barge, and he patrols the shore, to ensure no one comes close enough to endanger them. 

It all seems rather silly, until the day a man throws himself at them with a sword that glitters in the light like crimson flame. Ser Kenobi fights off the assailant, and Padmé has never seen men move so quickly, their blades clanging violently as they battle. It is over surprisingly quickly - Ser Kenobi finds a weakness in his foe’s armour and nearly slices their attacker in half. 

As Padmé approaches, Ser Kenobi goes to his knees. He slides dagger beneath the attacker’s helmet strap, and pulls the head covering away to reveal a face red with blood and exertion, and heavily tattooed with the marks of a criminal. Kenobi presses the attacker for answers, trying to determine who sent the assassin and why. The man dies silent, and grinning, taking his secrets to the grave. 

“Forgive me Princess, you should not have to see this,” Kenobi says quietly, and removes his tabard to cover the slain assailant. “Shall I call for your maids?”

“No, please ser,” Padmé says. “I’m not certain I should feel safe without you to guard us just now.” The other ladies nod their affirmation, although Depa is holding a dagger in her skirts. Padmé can’t help but wonder if she even knows how to use it. 

After that, there is no talk of dismissing Ser Kenobi from Padmé’s service. Some quibble that the King’s Sword really ought to be protecting the King, but King Qui-Gon has always indulged his son, and it is on Anakin’s request that Kenobi first came to Padmé and her ladies. So it is with the Princess’ court Kenobi remains, even when they quit the palace In the city for the sunlit gardens of Varykino.

“My sworn brothers guard the King and Prince,” Kenobi says when Padmé worries aloud. “I trust no one more than them.” Padmé accepts that, and in truth, she does not want to part with Ser Kenobi. While he is still aloof, now she thinks that perhaps he simply doesn’t know what to do when faced with a beautiful woman. 

As the weeks pass into months, Kenobi begins to relax a little in their presence. Depa calls theological questions to him across the room, and they spar amiably on matters of faith. He whiles away time with gossip and gentle teasing, and Padmé finds herself asking him about his childhood and home and training as a Knight. He answers, most of the time, and tells them cheerful tales of his boyhood as a ward of the court, a noble orphan raised by wise Queen Tahl, companion to the kind Princess Bant, who was wife and Queen now to Kit Fisto, in far off Glee Anselm by the sea. 

Kenobi never quite loses his reserve, but Padmé begins to find that endearing. His tales are light and amusing, and although he is religious, he does not sermonize. Padmé is especially grateful for that - her people have their own gods, and she does not follow the Jedi religion that is the common faith here. In time, she knows, she will have to adopt the rituals of the Temple, but until then she will track the moons, and make her offerings at the allotted times. 

It isn’t until young Prince Anakin comes of age and Padmé and he are officially betrothed, years after Ser Kenobi has become a fixture in her entourage and a trusted companion, that Padmé realizes her heart is no longer free. Anakin is a kind boy, but over the years Padmé has come to think of him as a friend, and a brother, but not a lover or husband, despite his clear adoration. She dances with Kenobi that night, and his hand, firm on her back, steers her unerringly through the crowded dance floor. 

It is not the first time they have danced, for many an afternoon he has led her and each of her ladies in turn through the gardens, with a spring in their step. But it is the first time she has seen Kenobi without his armour, and he is beyond handsome in his cream-white tunics embroidered with crimson and thread of gold, and leggings hugging his legs, the pale fabric somehow emphasizing both the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips. 

Padmé wants to lean up, to kiss him, to whisper sweet words against his skin. There is something in his pale eyes that she imagines means he feels the same. But Anakin is of age, and in a year, they will be wed. For tonight, Padmé and Obi-Wan dance together as if their feet have wings, smiling at one another as the traverse the floor arm in arm until the song draws to a close, then again, and again, until Anakin cuts in and keeps jealously at Padmé’s side the rest of the night.

The morning after her engagement ball, Padmé wakes to find her rooms sweet scented from a cluster of pink roses, the variety that in Naboo are given in acknowledgement of the first blush of love. They are not, Padmé is certain, from her Prince. He might make such a gesture, but not so privately. He would bestow such a gift before the court, so he might be lauded for his thoughtfulness, and his romantic nature. The Prince too, would give her more than a single posey, no matter how dear they are here in Coruscant. 

A few days later, Kenobi sings to Padmé and her ladies for the first time. The words as soft and the tune wistful, and as his voice trails off on the final note, his eyes meet Padmé’s, and a thrill runs through her. That night, she slips from her apartments in the royal residence, only a simple cloak around her shoulders to guard against the chill, her hair tumbling in loose curls down her back. Kenobi stands beneath her balcony, looking up as if measuring the phase of the moon to make his devotions to the goddess. 

“My Queen,” Kenobi greets her, rather than the _your Highness_ that is her due. 

“My Knight,” Padmé returns just as boldly, and offers him her bare hand. He accepts, bowing and pressing a lingering kiss to her fingers. She thrills at the contact - always before, even when they danced, it was gloved hand in gloved hand, or gloved hand laid against clothing. This is the first time she has felt the brush of his whiskers against her skin, the gentle rasp of his swordsman’s callouses. “Call me Padmé,” she directs, another impropriety he accepts with a smile. 

“Then you must call me Obi-Wan,” he says, and it is the first time she has heard his given name. “Would you walk with me Padmé?” Obi-Wan asks courteously, and she nods. She tucks her hand into the crook of his arm, feeling the cool rings of his mail shirt and the slight give of the padded leather gambeson, and beneath that, the firm muscle of his bicep. 

They walk in silence for a time, stealing looks at one another in the moonlight. Obi-Wan leads Padmé to a stand of night blooming flowers, their pale blossoms redolent with fragrance in the stillness. He plucks one, and lifts it to his nose, meeting her eyes as he buries his nose in its sweetness. Padmé can feel the heat rising in her cheeks as he tucks the flower behind her ear. His fingers linger there, on the curve of her ear, the silk of her hair.

“I should go in,” Padmé says, and Obi-Wan dips his head. He walks her to the door, and there, before he surrenders her arm, he takes her hand in his and presses another kiss to her fingers. “We shouldn’t,” she breathes, as he turns her hand and nuzzles against her palm.

“Speak a single word, and I shall refrain,” Obi-Wan promises, his words soft against her skin. His gaze is searing as he kisses her palm, then the pulse thundering in her wrist. Padmé parts from him without another word spoken.

In the morning, another posey has been left in her room; a handful of small, white blossoms shaped like stars with many thin white stamens, wrapped in a slate-blue ribbon. It is not a flower she knows, and she wonders at its meaning. Even without knowing, she has her handmaiden braid them into her hair when she dresses, her plait tied off with the bit of blue-grey silk. 

Obi-Wan’s gaze flits between the flowers and her face when he comes to guard them that morning. Padmé smiles to herself at the subtle acknowledgement. She has suspected, since he joined her in the gardens, that he had left her the blush pink roses, but this confirmation sends joy sparkling through her. She pulls out a deep blue velvet gown, newly made, and selects ivory silks and seed pearls, envisioning in her mind little clusters of five-petaled flowers. 

“Will you read for us, Ser Kenobi?” Padmé asks, and his eyes settle on her. 

“And what shall I read, your Highness?” Obi-Wan replies. 

“Oh, I have a new book of poems,” Moteé says excitedly, “mother just sent them from Theed, my Lady.” Padmé had hoped to give Obi-Wan some poems herself, but nods just the same. Obi-Wan smiles slightly, and accepts the thin volume from Moteé’s hand. He hums softly, and leafs through before selecting a first reading. 

“The Green Afternoon,” he reads, and Cordé sighs, clearly familiar with the poem. “Shall I select another?” he offers, and Cordé blushes. 

“No, please, I quite like this one,” Cordé encourages, and so Obi-Wan dips his head, and reads on.

> “Translucent green on the wall, a dance of leaves,  
Of hands weaving  
Peace like a vine on the bedroom wall,
> 
> And the white gauze curtains blown  
Of wind or light  
Suspend the green afternoon
> 
> As the room suspends  
And is the whole house, is the day  
Or the one clarity of the day
> 
> Asserting its clear furniture,  
Confirming  
The definition of itself
> 
> Like a choice  
Returned to and returned to, like  
A luminous choice.”

His lovely voice trails off as he finishes reading, and Padmé isn’t the only one to sigh. In her mind she has an image, clear as day. Obi-Wan, without his mail and armour, in only the pale linen that lays soft against his skin, and the sun golden in his hair. He is surrounded by flowers, by vines, by peace, and in her imagining, she is there with him.

Obi-Wan’s pale eyes lift, meeting Padmé’s gaze. A sudden thrill passes through her, and she half-thinks he can see that image in her mind, the bower she has built them there. He smiles softly, and she thinks that perhaps he has built his own bower for her, as she has imagined one for him. The thought makes her smile in return. 

That night, Obi-Wan is in the garden when Padmé decides to take a last walk before she goes to bed. She hadn’t allowed herself to expect him, and that makes his presence even more treasured. He offers his hand, and she accepts, settling her hand in the crook of his arm. 

“Earlier,” Obi-Wan says after a while, and Padmé looks up. He is looking down at her, formulating his question, a slight crease between his eyebrows. Padmé reaches out, gently smoothing his brow. 

“Earlier, I thought to give you a volume of poetry myself,” Padmé admits, then laughs softly. “It is better perhaps, that I did not.”

“What would you have had me read?” Obi-Wan asks, and Padmé thinks a moment, than recites from memory.

> ”I want to write different words for you  
To invent a language for you alone  
To fit the size of your body  
And the size of my love.
> 
> I want to travel away from the dictionary  
And to leave my lips  
I am tired of my mouth  
I want a different one  
Which can change  
Into a cherry tree or a match box,  
A mouth from which words can emerge  
Like nymphs from the sea,  
Like white chicks jumping from the magician’s hat.”

They walk in silence and Padmé wonders if she’s said too much, if she’s overstepped. Obi-Wan pauses when they are out of sight of the palace and looks down into her face. He reaches for her, his thumb brushing over the swell of her lower lip.

“Your mouth is perfect. Your words, everything about you is - so much more than I have ever dared desire,” Obi-Wan says, his voice low and fervent. He cocks his head slightly, then smiles. “I would like to sing someone to sleep,” he says, with the air of someone quoting, then repeats that line before continuing:

> ”I would like to sing someone to sleep  
by someone to sit and be.  
I would like to rock you and croon you to sleep  
And attend you in slumber and out.  
I would like to be the only one in the house  
Who would know: The night was cold.  
And would like to hearken within and without  
To you, to the world, to the wood.--  
The clocks call striking to each other,  
And ones sees to the bottom of time.  
And below a strange man passes yet  
And rouses a strange dog.  
Behind that comes stillness. I have laid  
My eyes upon you wide;  
They hold you gently and let you go  
When some thing stirs in the dark.”

Padmé’s heart stirs at the poem, although it is unfamiliar to her. Obi-Wan’s gaze is intent as he falls silent, and she leans up, pressing a trembling kiss to his stubbled cheek. His hand presses up her back, and cradles her head in place. He shifts, their eyes meeting once more, and he presses his lips gently to hers.

She is dizzy when they part again, and her fingers refuse to let go of Obi-Wan’s broad shoulders. He doesn’t push her away, and so they stand there, breathing one another in with the night air. Both of them know this is beyond unwise. Neither of them proposes that they stop. 

Every few days, a flower appears in Padmé’s rooms, or a carefully copied bit of poetry, or some small gift - a bit of ribbon or a gleaming shell. Nothing Obi-Wan gives her has much value, save to the two of them. Each time there is a present, Padmé knows she will find Obi-Wan in the garden that night, if she ventures down among the greenery and sweet scented flowers. 

She creeps down, amidst the shadows, and they walk the starlit paths. They recite poetry to one another, and kiss, and gaze searchingly into one anothers eyes. 

The months pass. 

Padmé finishes her blue gown, with the little white flowers embroidered all over the bodice and skirts. They are myrtle flowers, she has learned, a symbol of love here, and one often woven into crowns for brides. The gown is perhaps the loveliest in her expansive wardrobe, and so she carefully copies the myrtle flowers on the veiling she will wear the day she is to wed Prince Anakin. 

The day before Padmé’s wedding, Obi-Wan brings her the largest bouquet yet. Myrtle and roses and orange blossoms, asters and camellias and soft green maidenhair ferns. Every stem speaks of love. Nestled deep in the center, a single primrose. _I cannot live without you_, Padmé interprets, and pins that single stem to her bodice when she dresses. 

“I would spend tonight in vigil at the Temple,” Padmé declares that afternoon, as Obi-Wan stands watch over her and her ladies. He catches her eye and nods as they compliment her on her piety, and she smiles, hoping the expression is demure rather than scheming. Come morning, they will likely curse her name. 

After their evening meal, Padmé changes into her wedding raiment. She wears her hair in loose curls, crowned in myrtle. Her blue gown is mostly hidden beneath her heavy cloak when she descends from her carriage at the Temple, and the monks have long ago gone to bed. 

Padmé passes into the Temple, and finds her Knight already inside. He is, for only the second time in her sight, unencumbered by arms and armour. Instead of the rich cream formal dress of the long ago ball, he is cloaked in deep brown homespun.

Before the altar, Obi-Wan offers Padmé his hand, bare of the trappings of a Knight or Lord or King’s Sword. She steps forward, and presses her palm to his. 

“Let us go as we are,” Padmé says quietly. Her voice carries in the otherwise empty Temple regardless. “A free woman and a loyal friend, and soon there will be a new present for us.” 

“A new present,” Obi-Wan agreed, “let’s go together.” He leads her out a side door, to where his great warhorse waits patiently mouthing at the oats in his nosebag. Obi-Wan gently readies the beast, and lifts Padmé up before the saddle. He mounts, his arms wrapping around her to take the reins. 

A soft sound, and the horse begins to walk, his ironshod hooves almost unbearably loud in the stillness of the night. No one seems to see them go, as they ride out of the city. No one calls after them, as the cobblestones give way to the packed dirt of a country road. 

Before them, the moon rises, bright and full. Padmé smiles, and leans back against Obi-Wan. He is warm behind her, his linen tunic soft against her cheek, and the rocking of the horse beneath them lulls her to sleep in his arms. 

Padmé wakes as Obi-Wan reins in his mount, and she yawns, rubbing her cheek against Obi-Wan’s strong shoulder. The sun is rising, pale golden light streaming over a land she has never seen before. She turns away, turns to Obi-Wan, and the light touches him too, gilds his fine profile and coppery hair. _A free lover, and her poet_, she recalls from a poem, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Poems:  
-Obi-Wan recites The Green Afternoon by Henry Rago in the garden when Moteé hands him a book from Theed.  
-Padmé recites I Want to Write Different Words For You by Nizar Qabbani, trans. Bassam K. Frangieh and Clementina R. Brown in the garden at night  
-Obi-Wan recites To Say for Going to Sleep by Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. M. D. Herter Norton  
-Padmé and Obi-Wan both steal some lines from We Were Missing a Present by Mahmoud Darwish, trans. Fady Joudah in the Temple, and Padmé thinks of this poem again at the very end.


End file.
